


Entwined

by sciencefictioness



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Hair Braiding, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 07:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20224054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: The mouth of the cave they’re sheltering under is bathed in eerie shadow.  Firelight flickers wild around them— it’s cold enough outside that they need it if they’re going to linger.  He’d be surprised if they didn’t.They are always lingering, it seems.  A fire, or a miracle.Crowley keeps them warm.Aziraphale’s breath fogs out in front of him.  He’s sitting on the ground close to the flames, knees bent, robes tangled around his legs.  His wings are out, the longest of his feathers dragging in the dirt behind him. There’s no need to dissipate them, no humans for a thousand miles.  There’s just Aziraphale.Aziraphale, the sky lit overhead with a million stars, and Crowley.He isn’t sure why Crowley always brings them here, to the place where he fell.They could be anywhere, and yet.





	Entwined

The mouth of the cave they’re sheltering under is bathed in eerie shadow. Firelight flickers wild around them— it’s cold enough outside that they need it if they’re going to linger. He’d be surprised if they didn’t.

They are always lingering, it seems. A fire, or a miracle.

Crowley keeps them warm.

Aziraphale’s breath fogs out in front of him. He’s sitting on the ground close to the flames, knees bent, robes tangled around his legs. His wings are out, the longest of his feathers dragging in the dirt behind him. There’s no need to dissipate them, no humans for a thousand miles. There’s just Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, the sky lit overhead with a million stars, and Crowley.

He isn’t sure why Crowley always brings them here, to the place where he fell. 

They could be anywhere, and yet.

Crowley is sitting in front of him, eased back between his knees, wings drawn forward around his shoulders to make room for Aziraphale. His bare feet are tucked under the loose black fabric of Crowley’s robe where it pools on the stone.

Aziraphale’s hands are sunk into his hair, untangling the strands with his fingers. Crowley leans into the touch, his eyes closed, arms wrapped around his knees. 

“Like before, then?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley hums out an agreement, letting his head drop further towards Aziraphale as he combs through layers of vivid red.

Crowley could do this himself, Aziraphale thinks. He doesn’t say it aloud. 

It hasn’t been all that long since they both stood together on the garden wall and watched Adam and Eve disappear into the desert. The fall is still a fresh, vicious thing, and Aziraphale can see it in Crowley like a wound— an empty space, the void trying to swallow him whole.

Sometimes he slithers up to Aziraphale; coils around his shoulders, black scales glinting in the moonlight. Sometimes he stays there, like taking his other form is too much effort.

Like it hurts to admit he’s anything more.

Stays a beast so long Aziraphale is worried he’s forgotten how to be demon. Forget how to walk, how to speak, and Crowley isn’t a snake as often, anymore.

Sometimes he finds Aziraphale in the dark,  _ help me with this, angel.  _

Crowley could do it himself, but then Aziraphale wouldn’t get to touch him; there’s no softness between demons, no affection.

No one but Aziraphale puts their hands on Crowley. Considering how he presses into it, how he goes boneless, it feels like the worst sort of crime. 

Aziraphale carefully separates Crowley’s hair into different sections. He’s gotten better at it, now. Knows how to start the braid higher, pulling it in from the sides as he goes, everything smooth and meticulous. It’s not something he needs to rush. 

Thunder rumbles in the distance, a storm rolling past a little ways off. Lightning crashes, everything stuttering bright. Aziraphale thinks of Eden, and shielding Crowley from the rain.

Maybe he is sure why Crowley brings them there.

It’s the closest to place to Heaven that he’ll ever be again. Somewhere Crowley can remember. 

As if he could forget.

Aziraphale takes his time, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair when he doesn’t really need to, scratching them against his scalp. When he starts drawing it into a braid Crowley sighs. It’s drowsy, almost.

Aziraphale wonders if he could fall asleep. He works his way down slow, weaving the sections together, humming a song he can’t place. 

When he gets to the ends Crowley hands him a length of ribbon. Aziraphale ties it in a snug knot, then hesitates, before turning it into a bow. He runs his fingers over the finished braid like he always does, and Crowley makes another noise low in his throat.

“You done, then?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale finds he doesn’t want to be done. He shakes his head, slipping an arm around Crowley’s chest and tugging him closer, erasing the last bit of space between them. He’s leaned back against Aziraphale, breathing gone deliberately even and body alight with tension.

“Not quite done, no,” Aziraphale says, voice barely above a whisper.

Crowley relaxes in stages. His hands, first, then his jaw. The tension in his brow fades, the lines of his back easing. Little by little, but soon Aziraphale is taking his weight. He’s warm under Aziraphale’s palms. Crowley’s hair is soft against his cheek. His wings shift, sliding behind him, the tips slipping into place underneath Aziraphale’s own.

Crowley’s eyes drift closed. He mumbles something Aziraphale can’t make out, then curls into him and goes still. 

The thunder sounds out again; closer this time, louder, but Crowley doesn’t stir. The rain comes lightly at first. The outcropping of rock overhead keeps them dry. Aziraphale pulls his wings around Crowley just in case, a fine mist clinging to his outermost feathers, wind blowing the edges of the storm in on them. The night would be better spent somewhere else. Indoor, somewhere drier.

He’s strong enough to clear the skies, except someone upstairs would notice the kind of miracle it would take to make the storm disappear, and he’s loathe to disturb Crowley. 

All the lines are gone from his face in sleep, and his breathing is deep and even; waking him feels wrong, so Aziraphale settles in to wait. 

The rain has calmed some by the time it reaches them in earnest. It falls lightly outside, the sky black with clouds. The fire flares bright and impossible, the scant wood persisting long after it should have burned away. A fire, or a miracle.

Crowley keeps them warm.

Aziraphale sits with him for two weeks, watching the sun rise and set and rise again. 

When he wakes up, they go together.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things or come yell at me on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en)


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